The art of telling
In our family we held each day
in a slack semiloop
the stories always felt drunken
the art of telling like mapping
a thousand-foot ridge
the blue steal lifting me up
our hands palming stars
It’s hard to imagine
a day after tomorrow
it’s hard to remember
the silk-wrapped shimmer
of being young
the way I wanted four aces
without quite saying so
I walk to the creek
my father lifting me up
to wade across
our heads turned like street fighters
fish splash parting time
morning and evening spread and slip
when I look I see half of myself
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